


On Paper-Thin Wings, We Fly

by awildlokiappears



Series: Chiroptera [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: A better reason to fight, Fix-It, Gen, Happy Batfamily (DCU), I want a better Bruce, So I made one, batfamverse - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awildlokiappears/pseuds/awildlokiappears
Summary: The night the Waynes were murdered, everyone in the precinct was too busy laughing at a pair of idiot billionaires gunned down by a druggie to care much for the boy...Everyone except, perhaps, Detective Jim Gordon, who never forgot that night...and never forgot that boy.The night Bruce lost his parents, his heart was too battered and too aching to care much for anyone or anything...except, perhaps, one lone detective, who set him on the path to healing, and when things went awry, helped him get to the one person Bruce still trusted.It was Jim who gave Bruce his wings...and Bruce, Jim's reason to keep on fighting.
Series: Chiroptera [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656403
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	On Paper-Thin Wings, We Fly

There was a faint scent of pipe-smoke in the leather jacket draped over his shoulders, and Bruce inhaled it, almost viciously, desperate for _something_ to distract from crying once more. He ached all over, half from the battering at the hands of the druggie who’d roughed him up after killing his parents, tearing off his downy jacket and shoes…and half from the sorrow that still lanced through his heart with every breath. _Mom…Dad_ …He had been crying for hours now, having done his best to save them, to stop the bleeding, his throat raw from screaming for help in the frozen weather.

His feet were in a bucket of hot water, microwaved up to return feeling and life to his purple toes, and his face, hands, and arms scrubbed clean of blood…all the blood. Even his clothes were different; an over-sized small tee shirt from the women’s locker room, and a pair of heavily cinched in, cut off shorts from one of the nicer officers. They all knew who he was now…who they had been. He could already hear the murmurs, his eyes staring blankly into the wood floors, wrapped in that warm leather jacket. He closed his eyes, tears still burning down his chapped cheeks, and let the smoky aroma wrap around him too, finding an odd comfort in it.

It was somewhat like his father’s rare smoking habit, a pipe, just like this, and Alfred’s too; good, clean tobacco, rather than the more common and dangerous cigars and cigarettes. It was a scent that had only good memories, good times, and Bruce found himself calming down slowly, the tears still burning over raw skin, but the snot and choking and sobbing easing at long last…

“Bruce?” Detective James Gordon’s voice was incredibly gentle and kind, and Bruce lifted his eyes, blinking weakly, feeling so, so exhausted.

“Yes, sir?” He whispered, his voice just the barest, thinnest of sounds, and the detective smiled, eyes crinkling with a kindness that made him relax just that little bit more.

“Just Jim, lad; think you can stomach a bit of hot cocoa and something to eat? I know you probably don’t want to…but we’ve been here six hours already, and you were out in the cold for almost four.” Bruce blinked again, turning his gaze down, and he nodded, jerky and still worn to the bone, his hands creeping out of the jacket shakily. Jim helped him sip the hot, hot drink down, and finally, Bruce could hold the mug close, relaxing back with a sigh that seemed far too old for his age. He wanted to just fall asleep…but lessons from Alfred, from his Dad, reminded him that food was more important right now.

“Thank you…Mister Jim.” He found a little more of his voice now, though it was still soft, and the second mug, full of hot, instant apple cinnamon oatmeal was a welcome treat as well, for all that he had _ha_ _ted_ oatmeal before. But it was soft, piping hot, and tasty, and it was just what he needed right now, right then, settling in his stomach and soothing the hunger pains instantly. Jim held his cocoa while he ate, taking careful, easy bites rather than inhaling it, and he set it gently on the desk with care. “That was so good, thank you…”

“You’re very welcome, lad; I’m impressed, lots of kids would have just eaten too fast and thrown up…” Jim started, and Bruce nodded, feeling a little more himself, though shyer now. He…knew he was smarter than a whole lot of eight year olds, and he didn’t want to seem like a jerk to this really nice man who’d been so kind to him…so he chose his words carefully.

“I…my dad…he taught me how to take it slow if you haven’t eaten in a long time, because it hurts you more to go too fast…” He gulped a little at the memory, and took a deep breath, clutching that mug of cocoa like a lifeline now. “And…I already hurt so much…I don’t wanna make a mess either…” He swallowed the lump in his throat, and Jim’s mustache twitched up in a real smile, a grin that made Bruce smile back, shyly, hesitantly.

“…That’s an excellent lesson, and you’re so smart for remembering that, even with everything…And for what you did to help them, lad. I…I’m not the person who’s supposed to talk to you about anything like this, but…I don’t think you’re the kind of kid that needs small words and platitudes. So the truth is…” He took a deep breath, and let it out, shifting forward in his chair to clasp his hands together, elbows resting on his knees as he bent forward, blue eyes earnest. “Bruce, you did your best to save your parents. You did. You did more than anyone else on that street, or any of the officers did when they came in. And you did it without a second thought.

“And I want you to know that we will catch this absolute bastard, and I apologize for my language. We will catch him, put him in prison where he belongs, and we will make sure justice is done. Because the very least we can do for you is our jobs, when you, at eight years old, tried to save your mom and dad from their wounds. I promise you that.” Bruce stared at him, awestruck, and Jim smiled, gently patting his knee. “But…remember too that you don’t always have to be strong. That you’re going to break down and cry a lot, and remember them and cry some more.” Tears, fresh and hot and new, started rolling down again, and Bruce tried to breathe…

But the hiccuping had started once more, and now, instead of being alone, warm arms gathered him to a welcoming chest with a shoulder holster and a crisp tie, and Jim Gordon held Bruce Wayne tight as he sobbed out his grief into the detective’s shoulder, clinging to him as fiercely as any heartbroken child would. He settled back, Bruce sitting across his lap as though he were Jim’s own child, and began to rock him, humming an old lullaby, and that’s what broke the rest of the walls down, wails shaking Bruce’s body as he grieved again and again, the horrible nightmare replaying in his too perfect memory.

“Momma…Daddy…”

“I know, buddy…I know…” Sleep took him soon enough, the ten hours of hell finally culminating in a sleep so deep that when Bruce woke again, still tucked under that warm jacket, he was curled up on a battered old couch, in what he recognized as the police station break room. A young officer, barely out of the academy was reading a newspaper, and warm brown eyes flickered over as soon as he lifted his head. He, unlike the other officers out there in the main bullpen, was dressed so perfectly to uniform that it reminded Bruce of Jim; a model image of the ideal policeman, unlike the combat geared knuckleheads that had snorted and laughed at him, at his real worth in the outside world…

“Hey there, kiddo, you thirsty?” Bruce blinked guiltily back to the officer, and nodded, mouth as dry as a desert and he didn’t trust his voice after that. Ordinarily, he didn’t like being called ‘kiddo’; too many idiot Board members in Wayne Enterprises. But this guy…he was like Lucius. Lucius, who grinned and laughed with his dad, who called him kiddo and showed him how to fix his broken remote control car…and Bruce found himself smiling, just a tiny bit, still shy as he took the water from Officer… _Cash’s, his badge says Cash_ , large hand. After a long drink, he sighed a little, sitting up, kinda glad someone had found him socks, too large, but warm.

“Thank you, Officer Cash…”

“Aw, you can call me Aaron, buddy, I don’t mind.” Bruce found the smile on his face growing a little at that, his shoulders slumping back down in relief. This had to be one of Jim’s good ones, because he was folding the newspaper back up neatly, glancing over, eyes checking on Bruce, but not in a…bad way. _I’m his duty right now…he’s making sure I’m okay. That’s…nice._

“Okay…Aaron. How long was I asleep?”

“About three hours, kiddo, it’s almost eleven am now. Which, given what you had to survive…if you wanna go back to sleep, you just snuggle back up under that blanket. I’m here till we get the clear from Child Services, and since it’s a weekend…well, they’re slow on a good day.” Bruce felt himself go pale at that, and Aaron paused, his dark skin flushing with worry. “I promise you, you will not have to go with them. Not yet, at least; they’re checking out your family’s butler, since he’s your guardian now that your parents have passed. They have to run interviews and such, and while they were supposed to send you someone to be your advocate, I guess Jim got them to trust him enough since he’s a new dad himself.”

“…Okay, that…that is way less scary.” He gulped back another lump in his throat, new fresh fear _oh no no no I can’t lose Alfred too, no please no_ still cutting into his heart like a knife, and Aaron winced.

“I’m sorry, I should have watched what I said, kiddo. Anyway, Jim thinks it’l be later afternoon before they get finished…you wanna stay here, or you wanna move to Jim’s office now? I think he’s finally freed up from getting his butt chewed.”

“…Did I get him in trouble?” Bruce prayed right then that he hadn’t, that it was just bad people at the top, because Jim had been the first one to pick him up, to hold him and _help_ him, and if helping Bruce had gotten him in bad trouble…

“God no, not at all, kiddo. No, he got into a shouting match with a few of the big bad old ‘tecs who thought you should have been dumped at Child Services in the middle of the night. You were out like a light, so he passed me a pair of his socks, you, and his jacket and a blanket, and asked me to get you comfortable in the breakroom so you could actually sleep. Best assignment in the world, Bruce, and I am honored to be trusted like that.” His rich, warm voice was just as calming, in a way, as Jim’s, and Bruce found himself smiling shyly once more, feeling his heartbeat ease back down again.

“Thank you…Really, really, thank you…I…this is all so awful…” His voice cracked again, but he swallowed it back, taking a sip of his water, and a deep breath. “…And I’m scared. I’m so scared. But Jim and you, you’re both really good people, and I think I’d be a whole lot more scared and upset if I wasn’t with you two.” Aaron’s acne-scarred face broke into a broad, bright smile, real and happy and true, and Bruce grinned shyly back.

“Well, thank you too, because you’re a damn good kid. Think you can eat a little more?” His stomach growled right then, and Aaron laughed, chuckling as he came over to offer a dark hand to Bruce; he took it without question, still swimming in that warm leather jacket. “I’m takin’ that as a yes. Tell you what, how about we go next door? It’s a little diner that’s open all night, we don’t even have to go outside in the snow because we have a door. Flo makes the best pancakes in Gotham.”

“…Yes please, pancakes sound so good right now.” The sorrow seemed to drift off, and Bruce clung to Aaron’s hand as the older man led him to the diner, carefully keeping Bruce away from the rest of the GCPD squads and helping him over the steps in his too-big socks into the diner. There, Aaron boosted him into a booth, draping the blanket over his legs so he didn’t get chilled, and Bruce relaxed back into the soft old seats, new smells adding to the pipe-smoke now. Food, good food, filled the air, along with a touch of sprayed sanitizer and floor cleaner from the mop bucket and rags by one table.

Sound filled the diner too, from a pretty little jukebox in the corner, a classic old guitar ballad playing. It wasn’t one that his parents had listened to, so he had no memories there, and he found that he liked the beautiful way it was played, the delicate guitar-work blending with the young woman’s voice as she crooned about Dreamboat Annie. It was a lovely thing to have underlaying the quiet voices and sounds of food being made, and Bruce let it fill his senses, suddenly far and away from his grief, for just a little while…and when Aaron picked up the menu, Bruce did too with the children’s one, suddenly not so bothered by the crayons and little characters to color as he would have been just yesterday.

He chose the kid’s pancake platter, and asked for hashbrowns as well as the eggs and bacon, and Aaron only smiled, nodding and adding a small milkshake to the order too when the waitress came around. Bruce, however, lost himself in the coloring, suddenly deeply, _deeply_ grateful that there were no red crayons to use. Instead, there was a black one, a blue one, and a green one; he colored in the little boat on the sea, lightly shading with the black and green before adding the blue for the water. A touch of green there too, and a bit of black for shadows, and he felt it was pretty decent…

Aaron, however, was clearly impressed.

“…Wow, kiddo, that’s…that’s really good.”

“Thank you…Alfred says I’m what a lot of people call a savant, or a genius…I don’t think I am, but I notice things, an’ I can remember things…and I love to read an’ draw an’ make things…” Letting the consonants drop was easier for him now, he felt safer here, and he continued explaining as he colored, this time the tree. Bruce found a brown in the little cup, and carefully started shading in the tree, adding little bits of bark here, there, to add dimension. “It gets me into trouble sometimes…I’ll say things an’ ‘member things, an’ people don’t like that.”

“…I can understand that…” Aaron murmured, watching him with his chin in one hand, brown eyes soft and so gentle. It was…comforting, and Bruce gave him a tiny smile, saying as much.

“That’s what I like about you an’ Mister Jim. You…don’t think I’m weird, or creepy…”

“I don’t. And Jim doesn’t, either. We think you’re brave, smart…and really sweet. And given our jobs, kiddo, we don’t see sweet much anymore. Kinda reminds us why we got into this, after all, and I’ve only been here a year.” Bruce paused, looking up at him now, and Aaron was still watching him, but he looked faraway and sad, older than his years.

“…I’m sorry.” He said softly, and Aaron only shook his head, still smiling so sadly.

“You’re just fine, kiddo. Not one damn bit of this is your fault; you just got stuck in the middle. Hey, I see our food coming, so how about we take a bit and just enjoy that, alright?” Bruce nodded, not trusting his voice, and welcomed the hot food and cold chocolate shake with a joy that he, surprisingly, did actually feel. But then, this was something he hadn’t had very often, unless his mom got up to make breakfast or had the time during the morning, and so he tackled the pancakes and rest with the same care as the oatmeal earlier, though he did slurp a little louder on the shake than he really planned on.

Aaron only smiled, sipping his own coffee and eating his own lunch, and they passed a quiet hour and a half just taking their time…though by now, Bruce was yawning again, feeling the weight of a very long night and morning bearing down on his weary body more and more with each passing moment. He did his best to stumble back to the breakroom, clutching Aaron’s hand, but he couldn’t help but cling when the officer scooped him up and carried him back, tucking him back under the blanket with all the care of a born parent…

“…Mm…you’re gonna be a good dad someday, Aaron…” Bruce murmured as sleep started to take him completely, and the last words he heard were Aaron’s, warm and pleasantly surprised…and full of hope.

“Kiddo, I’ll do my best. I’ll do my best.”

* * *

The shouting woke Bruce with a jolt of fear, and he bolted upright, eyes widening when he realized that Aaron was gone. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he could just about make out the hour hand, and to his horror, it was already five pm…and Alfred wasn’t here, either. Bruce’s heart, already racing, rose to a clamor as he tried to listen to the shouting…and to his horror, he recognized the loudest voice.

 _That’s Mister Dryven…oh no, oh no!_ The Head of the Board of Directors for Wayne Enterprises was a brutal, uncaring man with a heavy hand; he was independently wealthy enough to avoid the other board members voting him away, and while his Dad had said that Hugo brought a certain level of strength to the company…Bruce had only fear to know him by. Twice, Hugo Dryven had threatened to beat Bruce black and blue for ‘making fun of him’, and now, those familiar, hated footsteps were pounding towards this room, sending Bruce into a flurry of terror.

He scooped up his blanket, balling it up under his arm, and ran for his life, stripping off the socks to gain some traction from hard little feet used to roaming the Wayne estate barefoot from spring to fall as often as he could. Bruce paused in a tiny dark corner to tie them together, then fashion a quick and dirty hobo pack out of the blanket and sock-rope, then, putting the end in his teeth, he started scaling up a large pallet of police gear, still in boxes, to the ventilation ductwork above.

The lessons he’d learned here were not from his parents, as much as he loved them…but from Alfred. Alfred, former British secret agent, former spy…and former thief, now long since removed from his boyhood in the streets of London. Alfred, the butler with the dark eyes and perfect everything, that had taught his young master how to fight, how to flee, how to hide…and most importantly…how to _think_. Bruce managed to unscrew the mostly hidden panel with few turns of a dime left in Jim’s pocket, and he slipped in just as quickly, going on hands and knees with the blanket-ball now tied to his ankle.

 _I have to get out…I have to get away from him…if he takes guardianship of me, I’ll never see Alfred again…!_ Those thoughts ran circles in his feverish brain, fear making them chase faster, faster, but his movements were slow, careful, and silent; he could not risk being found out. He paused at each grate now, watching from above with slow, deep, even breaths that were as silent as he could make them, scratching his nose to keep the dust bunnies from making him sneeze.

It was pandemonium down below, with Hugo and his lackeys screaming bloody murder as the GCPD poured out of offices and training areas, everyone searching angrily for the newest billionaire in Gotham City…Except for one person. James Gordon was, when Bruce came to his office, sitting there at his computer, tapping away at a report or three, door closed, coffee at his right hand…and a dry chuckle.

“…Bruce, you want a hand down?” Bruce swallowed, suddenly afraid, and Jim glanced up, meeting his eyes through the grate. Those blue eyes, so like his own, were very kind…and Jim just smiled. “Or, you can keep going along this grate,” He pointed helpfully, though carefully, so that no one outside his window could see him. “and in another three or four grates, you’ll find Alfred Pennyworth frantically waiting to see his young master again. You two can leave out the back door that I have Officer Cash guarding right now, and you two can escape. Hugo Dryven can bitch all he wants, but he’s not taking you forcefully from this precinct.”

Bruce listened…and slowly, carefully, he shook his head when Jim carefully offered a hand.

“I…can I take the second one, please? Thank you, Jim, for everything, for…for keeping me safe and helping me and feeding me, and letting Aaron take care of me too. Thank you so much…I promise, I _swear_ , I’ll help you too someday, just like you helped me…” He whispered, eyes filling with tears now, not of sorrow, but of _thanks_ , of gratitude, and honest, real admiration for this brave man…and Jim’s mustache just twitched up in a smile.

“Help me, kiddo, by growing up to be a better man that you are a kid…and you’re a damn fine kid. Go on, go get your other dad, and you get some rest. I’ll be here, always; you can count on that.” Bruce nodded, and paused, then took off that jacket, offering it down through the suspiciously loose grate to Jim’s hands. He took it with a salute and a smile, and Bruce scrambled on, joy and fear and _need_ to see his best friend, his other father, and just escape this unending hell back to home… _I’ll be alone there…no, not alone. I’ve still got Alfred, and that means I’m not alone._ He managed to get to the waiting room, where Aaron was all but restraining a clearly angry and upset Alfred…and Bruce popped the grate off with a clatter, skinny legs dangling.

Alfred whirled around at the sound, Aaron at his side, and both of them started laughing as Bruce grinned down at them, absolutely filthy, exhausted, and elated…and as Alfred’s hands came up, Bruce fell into his arms and clung onto Alfred’s rather warm sweater and overjacket with all his strength.

“Alfred…”

“Bruce, my boy…oh my poor, sweet, incredible boy…” He whispered, and Bruce clung tighter, tears leaving tracks on his dirty cheeks, smudging into that soft cashmere…but Alfred didn’t care about that. He wrapped his young charge in his coat, and it was Aaron who gently broke the silence.

“Hey guys…let’s get you two on your way home, okay?” Bruce nodded, and managed a fistbump for Aaron, who returned it with a grin as he let them out into the cold…and for once, Alfred let him ride up front, his right hand and Bruce’s left clenched tightly together as Alfred drove them home one-handed, giving not a single, solitary damn if it seemed too unmanly. Bruce, for his part, now that the terror had abated, drowsed the long way home, wrapped in Alfred’s long woolen peacoat and curled up on the seat, his skinny legs folded under him as he clung to his mentor.

The walk from the garage felt like a dream, and when Bruce came around again, it was to Alfred gently using a washcloth to wipe off his face, his arms and legs already cleaned up and his clothes replaced for his own soft pajamas, the familiar Gray Ghost ones, the ones he’d always loved to pieces (and had had more pairs of than any other kid his parents had known). That…helped, to his surprise, and Bruce yawned widely, smiling as Alfred chuckled softly. His bedroom was right next to Alfred’s, and never had Bruce been so grateful for that…but this wasn’t his room.

It was Alfred’s, the bookcase full not of children’s novels and stories, but of history and war and tactics. The lamp next to the bed was a lovely piece from his mother’s last foray to Italy, the sheets and bedding a deep, austere blue, rather than Bruce’s brighter trains and cars. But Bruce’s favorite kitty plush was next to him, and he hugged old Sable close, relaxing at the familiar scent of chamomile from the cat’s stuffing, and Alfred gently rubbed his hair, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead.

“I apologize, my boy, but I thought…well, tonight will be an ill night for us both, I think…and I know you’re a mite old for most things, but I thought perhaps that a little comfort into slumber would help.”

“…Yes please, Alfred…I…I don’t wanna be alone…” He whispered, and the older man hugged him tight, tucking him to his chest and slipping under the duvet with Bruce tucked under his chin, hugging him fiercely. Bruce breathed in Alfred’s aftershave, the spicy scent just as soothing as Sable’s stuffing, and sleep came on swift wings once more…And when the nightmares woke him up with the screaming, Alfred was there again, rocking and soothing him once more.

As dawn broke the day after his parents were murdered, Bruce clung to his only surviving parent, and to the words that Alfred murmured to him, over and over again, needing that reassurance…and that love.

Outside the window, he could just about make out the last flitting shapes of the little brown bats that lived in the caves below the Manor; they’d always been so neat to watch, and he did so now, tucked against Alfred’s neck, his eyes red-rimmed and aching. They were flying away from the sun to roost…but they’d return with the night….something he wondered if he could do too.

“We will endure, Master Bruce…we will endure.”

**Author's Note:**

> This...is probably the start of a small series of oneshots, and yes, I know, I have a lot of other stuff to update, but this....sorta exploded into 4k worth of words in about two hours. So here ya go, AO3, my first foray into DC in fic, but by no means my first experience with it. 
> 
> I'm blending a lot of Paul Dini's Batman, Batfam, and Rogues into this, as well as broader expansion with Teen Titans later on...but mostly, I wanna do some fix-it work. Less brooding, more hugs, more kindness and love and healing...and more than just "I MUST BEAT UP BAD GUYS BECAUSE I FEEL SAD." Boy's gonna get some therapy.


End file.
